They numbered in the hundreds, mighty and towering over him. They fluttered and flowed, blanketing the sky and forming an endless sea of dark horrors. Their threat weighed heavy upon his soul; he knew that this would be a battle like no other he had ever faced, one which would force many sleepless nights of unending ferocity and perseverance. He had been to battle many times before and had shed much blood, but truly these battlegrounds were likely to become his personal cemetery: surely one man could not accomplish the task before him. He knew, however, that to doubt oneself is to willingly take the first step towards defeat. Though haunting him of late, he could not let such insecurities bar him from his ordeal. He firmly clutched his mighty weapon, gathering his strength and steeling his will. With a dash into the ink his weapon was unsheathed, ready to thrust into the first opponent.

A Transfer Request to the Bemeanian 45th division of Shapur II. Reasoning: I would like to be stationed closer to my family.

The man huddled against his fortress of paperwork, staring at that seemingly inconsequential parchment before him for a moment and reflected upon his own family. Was he stationed near his family during the Battle of Horsa? Was he stationed near his family while fighting in the Cruor Swamps? Was he stationed near his family while he trekked across the Mokoi Badlands? He stopped and drew in a deep breath to collect himself. He placed his weapon back onto the antagonizing page before him. Yes, he was closer to his family, because the military was his family and that was where this man belonged: request denied.

The door swung open.

“Sir, are you in here?”

The question like a needle punctured through the room breaching all of the tired man’s defenses and preparations completely deflating his will to complete this task. Was there really so much paperwork in this room that he could hide behind its walls?

A quick glance around would provide the sad truth. Mountains of files, requests, reports, and depositions stacked up filling his desk and covering his office. No line of sight between the door and his seat existed, the mere act of walking to and from the exit required maze-like navigation through tunnels and bridges, multiple environs of ink forests and paper mountains. Someone could find themselves lost in the tunnels of documents for hours remaining unnoticed.

“I, I have the list of candidates for the new Murugan squad.” The messenger’s voice was anxious, unsure of if their words were worthy of the room.

The tired man thought that perhaps the messenger was concerned about whether his voice was strong enough to pass through the thick paper barriers. “I have already seen the candidates, none of them will do.”

“Bu-but you have to form the squad from this list.”

“Have you seen the candidates!” the frustrated man shouted from behind the stacks of paper. His voice was strong enough to make a few of the taller stacks of paper sway slightly.

The messenger was concerned for the pillars’ stability. Any sudden action could potentially cause the whole foundation to crumble. “No sir, I have not.”

“They’re a joke! An embarrassment of the entire Pangean Entente! They can hardly manage to don their own armor properly! If I were to send any of them out to battle, they would just be snatched up and taken home by the mokoi as a comedic for their children to probably eat.”

“I don’t think that’s quite true… sir,” the messenger quietly retorted.

“Even the son of that quote-unquote “hero” could do better.”

The messenger easily quipped back, “Well in all fairness the Hero of New Heirisson Conquest’s son is said to be one of the greatest swordsmen alive, ignoring the fact that he is also a supremely skilled magician… and the son of the Hero of New Heirisson conquest.”

The frustrated man huffed out an aggravated sigh. He had long since tired of the usual ravings of celebrities more accustomed to the front page of the newspaper than the front lines of battle. “You better not be another one of his blind fans. His swordsmanship is admittedly good but far from refined. And what does him being the son of that quote-unquote “hero of humanity” have to do with anything?”

“Well, the hero is the most skilled fighter in all of history.”

“Not that skilled.”

“He was skilled enough to beat you.”

“…”

“I-I’m sorry, sir.”

It took the disgraced man a while to recollect himself before responding. “It’s alright, it is understandable that someone with your meager experience would struggle to differentiate between skill and talent. The Hero has strength and talent sure, but his skill pales in comparison to his ego. True skill is something much rarer and greater…”

The man’s mind wandered as he thought of those few special someones he desperately wished were on his list of Murugan candidates, “Like that little girl from the sodality of rain in the elemental festival eight years back.” He pondered idly on the mysterious prodigy. “I wonder what happened to her.” His attention was swiftly brought back as a much more pertinent example of his desired disciple emerged. “Or Liederkranz, now she was the pride of the Murugan squad. What she had was true skill.”

“I don’t understand sir.”

“Talent is like a fresh delicious cheese, and skill is like a cheese that has been left out for a long time to age into a true delicacy.” He answered simply.

“I— what?” The messenger was now really confused.

“It means I am not perfect. I can’t age cheese that thinks being fresh is better.”

“I can ask for someone to prepare you some cheese if you would like.”

The aggravated man bellowed in response, “It means I won’t be choosing any of those candidates for the Murugan squad!”

The messenger winced back against the stern tone feebly managing to stutter back. “Um sir, I am s-s-sorry but the ge-general s-sai-“

“Common son, speak more clearly.”

“THE GENERAL SAID - I DON’T CARE IF NONE OF THE CANDIDATES PASSES THAT IMPOSSIBLE TO PLEASE MAN’S CRITERIA, HE MUST CHOOSE SIX FROM THE LIST OR ELSE HE WILL HAVE TO REORGANIZE THE MILITARY FUNDS OF THE PAST TWELVE YEARS!... sir.” The messenger spoke hurriedly and with anxious panic as he awaited in horror for his superior to reply.

The agitated man was certainly exhausted at this point. That warmonger general of his kept on pushing him to train the next generation of Murugan squad now that none of its members were on active duty: or so the general wished! He was still on active duty, and no matter how much the general pushed for him to step down from the frontlines and Murugan squad, he still had many decades of fight in him!

Besides, those pencil pushers always hiding in the protection of Parapet Island under the guise of guiding the war effort don’t understand what the battlefield actually entails. They think just because a kid can swing an expensive sword their daddy bought them that they can be sent to the field and start collecting heads. They don’t understand that this war isn’t like any other. When someone is thrown in the middle of a warzone and stares down against their first mokoi realizing for the first time the difference between them and a mere human, realizing the true nature of this war, that decides who is capable of fighting: who is capable of joining the Murugan squad. The only squad of the Pangean entente to ever step foot on mokoi territory and return was not for some little brat that happens to fill some senile rich noble bingo board of ‘qualified warrior’.

For now, he would give up on fighting, he could just hide the candidate list at the bottom of his stacks of work, it would be beyond his control if he lost the list then. “Fine, just leave the list somewhere on the table.”

“...Sir?” The messenger asked back unsure.

“Yes?”

“Where is the table?”

The defeated man could not help but falter smacking his head down onto the mess which was once his desk and causing many of the stacks of paper to sway side to side threatening collapse. This was truly a grim state. “Just, leave it on a pile somewhere.”

The Messenger gently placed the list onto one of the many human-sized temples of bureaucracy. As the messenger left, he threw out some final words to the defeated man. “How is your back sir?” The messenger asked, his voice now soft with genuine concern.

“Better.”

“Get well soon sir.” With that last farewell the messenger began to walk out of the room.

“Yes please.”

“Sir?”

“If you could ask someone to prepare me some cheese that would be wonderful.”

“Yes sir.” The messenger began to leave the room again.

“Aged, not fresh.”

“Yes sir.”

The door shut and finally the old man had the room to himself again and he could return to his long-overdue work. The pen did not fit as comfortably in his hand as a sword, but such were the ways of his recent life.

He firmly clenched onto his mighty weapon, gathering his strength and steeling his will. With a dash into the ink, his weapon was unsheathed, and he thrust the weapon into his next opponent. A mighty tax form. His weapon bled ink onto the bottom of the paper as he carved out his name onto the body of the page. With a flick of his wrist the opponent was slain. He raised the corpse of the tiring and challenging enemy and dumped it upon one of the many stacks of corpses by his side. The stack swayed, side to side to side, indecisive of whether it would accept this extra load. After a few seconds of suspense, it decided it couldn’t.

The stack collapsed unto another stack which collapsed onto another and within the blink of an eye the whole room was a sea of paper. No more walls or tunnels, the place was a mess but at least he could see the door, and the window, he forgot he had one of those. He also saw a strange object in the center of the room, he was certain he did not have one of those.

In the center of the room there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the man holding a much more interesting piece of paper, a glowing parchment: it read.

You have been invited to The Tournament You are The Knight